Page 22 of The Ex Effect
Linens
Medication
There.My brain finally decided to settle and I traipsed into Peaches’s closet. The smell of mothballs, cedar blocks, and unwashed sweaters from the ’80s filled my nose.Oof. I grabbed a large box for donations, tugged off the clothes from the hangers, and started piling up the garments. I stretched all the way to the back and froze. A plastic bag. Who knew what the hell might be in here. All of this felt a little bit like going through someone’s underwear drawer. Chances were if it was stuck in the back of a closet in the bag, I probably shouldn’t look inside. I took a breath and opened.
“Huh.”
Inside was a sombrero, black wig, mustache, wide tie, white shirt, and embroidered belt.Oh Lord, I remembered this cringe-worthy outfit. Peaches had worn it to hand out candy at Halloween the year I turned fifteen. I’d gently told her it was bad to appropriate a culture like that and kind of racist.
Peaches had waved those words away. “Nonsense. You know how much I love Mexico.” She proceeded to talk about her favorite Mexican restaurant, her best friend, Maria Lopez, who she had coffee with every morning (who was the one who gave her the outfit in the first place, she’d tsked), and how she celebrated Cinco de Mayo every year. In my heart of hearts, I knew Peaches was not trying to be hateful but was too old and stubborn to be taught anything else.
My lips trembled. I distinctly remembered being at a partythat night, Morgan somewhere else, when someone offered me a fruit juice with rum. If I closed my eyes, I could still remember the burn, then the elation, then the severe nausea and shame. At midnight, I’d called Peaches begging her to pick me up and not tell my parents. I’d been bawling while puking outside in the bushes, totally convinced I’d get a minor consumption arrest and Coach would kick me off the team for drinking.
Peaches had come tearing around the corner, threw me into the truck, and let me sleep it off. She gave me a one-time-only get-out-of-jail-free card. “I’d pick you up anytime, no questions. But I can’t be hiding shit from your parents.”
Thankfully, Peaches never had to repeat that moment. The sight of fruit-juice-and-Halloween-candy-laden vomit was enough for me to not drink again until I was legal.
A tightness gripped my chest. I missed Peaches.So much. I slumped back on the faded yellow daisy comforter and put my head in my hands. What I would give to talk Peaches one last time and get some no-bullshit advice on what I should do about this summer. I came here to officially bury my past, settle Peaches’s affairs, and only return every few years for an obligatory weekend visit with my parents. Not spend the summer dusting up terrible memories with an ex who changed the trajectory of my heart.
Staring at the yellowish stain on the popcorn ceiling that had been there since I was a kid, I imagined Peaches standing in the doorway with her faded blue nightgown, bonnet in her hair, some nightly cordial in her hand, waiting for me open up on whatever was bothering me.
“I don’t like to pry,” she’d always say, knowing damn well that was her way to pry.
I didn’t need to imagine too long what I’d say to her if she were here. And I knew what her exact response would be.
EIGHT
MORGAN
Satin button-down pajamas do not get the love they deserve. Sure, on movies or TV shows they might show people wearing them, but I’ve never known anyone besides me who actually owns a pair. Most stick with cotton, a more practical and breathable material. But with the temperature rising just a touch every day, my satin-pajama-wearing nights would be coming to an end any day now.
Two days had passed since the engagement photo session with Frankie, and I needed to do everything possible to take my mind off the fact that my fate rested in the hands of a woman I didn’t trust. So, I slipped on my pajamas and grabbed an overstuffed bowl of cereal for dinner (don’t judge), sunk into the couch, and clicked on my favorite guilty pleasure,The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. No matter how entertaining, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about Frankie.
After the engagement photo shoot, she’d brought me back to my car and fixed my spark plug on the side of Main Street. It went way above the call of duty, and I almost hugged her right there in front of the coffee shop but refrained. I did, however, offer to buy her dinner, which she declined, lightning-fast.
It wasn’tdinnerdinner. It was more an “I’ll pay your labor with food” type of offer. But the snap rejection…Whatever.Frankie could think what she wanted and let her ego get in the way of what was clearly, obviously, meant as a friendly gesture.
I really needed to stop dwelling on that interaction.
Another thing I should stop? Practically salivating while watching Frankie take charge not once, but twice, that day. I was the least submissive person I knew. I was the one in charge,always. But during the photo shoot, then while fixing the car, having Frankie be totally in control made places tingle that definitely should not tingle for a terrible, awful ex-girlfriend.
I crunched into the Honey Nut Cheerios with extra honey swirled on top—Henry’s and my favorite—and tried to pay attention to the TV but couldn’t. Had Frankie talked to Pete and Patty yet? What did they say? And more importantly, why wasn’t Frankie answering any of my calls or texts?
As much as I wanted to hate Frankie, I didn’t. She wasn’t a bad person, so I didn’t want to believe this ghosting was a way to somehow retain control or get back at me for what she perceived as past relationship mistakes. She knew how important this was, right? Not only for me, but for Olivia and Tommy. Yesterday, I made a final, last-ditch effort call to a similar farm two and a half hours outside of town—way further than Olivia wanted—and they were not interested in having people on their property.
